


In Transit

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the world won't stop, they keep each other together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Transit

**Author's Note:**

> I...tried to do something with this story and I don't think I was very successful, but um. Here it is. Thank you to ma_chelle for the beta on the fly, and especially especially thank you to cynical_terror and undrockroll for being awesome, gracious, hard-working ladies who have given TH fandom so much and deserve only good things, such as sweet kitties and fluffy twins and delicious sushi and the gratitude of the thousands of people who benefit from THF. <3

"How's this for an after-party, huh?" Bill wants to know, padding up the narrow aisle of the bus barefoot, a bottle of champagne in one hand, two stacked plastic cups in the other. The bus sways from side to side, accentuating the lazy movements of Bill's hips as he prowls toward his half-naked twin. Tom is sprawled out on his bunk wearing only boxers; he's tanned and lean and gorgeous, and looks utterly relaxed. The closer Bill gets, the more open-mouthed Tom becomes, as though he's being sent on a pleasantly diversionary mental track by Bill's approach. Bill grins and rolls his eyes; he can practically see the blood draining from one head to the other.

"Awesome," Tom says with an emphatic nod, reaching out as Bill gets a few steps within range. "Very very awesome. Come here."

Bill stays out of reach, teasing, waving the bottle as he passes a cup over to Tom. "But we're being naughty, so naughty," he says. "Breaking our no-alcohol rule." He tips the bottle to an angle where Tom can wrap his hand around it and work at the cork with his thumb. Bill's eyes glint at the strung-out expression on Tom's face, the way he can't keep his gaze off the tongue that Bill's swiping to one corner of his mouth, slow and suggestive. The cork flies free and Tom jolts, snapping out of his slack expression as though realizing even though the cork has popped, he hasn't.

Tome exclaims in the next instant and holds his cup under the frothing overflow of golden liquid. It bubbles into his cup and Bill waits until it subsides a bit, then pours his own.

They lift their cheap plastic cups in a silent toast and Bill braces one hand above Tom's bunk as they take the first reflective sip.

"When aren't we naughty?" Tom says after a moment.

"Hmm." Bill has to think about it. He smokes when he shouldn't, lies all the time, fights dirty to get his way in business, and now he's cheating and having booze on the bus and plying Tom with it, too, to have his wicked way with him. All things that a so-called good boy shouldn't do. He offers at last, "When we're sleeping?"

Tom laughs. "We sleep together," he points out, and there's yet another thing no one knows because they're oh so careful. Two bunks, two hotel rooms, two separate bedrooms in their house, and the official party line is that the Kaulitz twins don't do _that._

Bill shrugs and downs his champagne before tossing the cup aside and crawling into Tom's lap. "That could be platonic," he says coyly.

Tom groans and tips his own cup to his mouth, drinking hastily. He's about to reach up and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when Bill catches his hand, gives him a small negative headshake, and reaches in to wipe the champagne from Tom's full lower lip with his thumb. Bill draws his own thumb into his mouth and looks at Tom with smoldering eyes.

"There's nothing brotherly about that look," Tom tells him, setting his cup to one side, on the small wooden shelf built into the bunk area for that purpose. "Now come here."

"I'm right here," Bill murmurs, but he knows what Tom means. He lowers his head until their mouths are close enough to brush. "Good to have our own bus?"

"So good," Tom asserts. He lifts up to press away that last, small gap between them and the bus cooperates, jostling to the side and sealing Bill against Tom's front. They both make a pleased noise and pursue the new shift in their positioning to the reasonable conclusion.

* * *

"Mmm...oh... _ohhh, Tom!"_

"You did _not_ just slip into the chorus of Komm."

"So what if I did? You always seem to think that song is about you..."

"Nnng...shut up, Bill, trying to...nnf...make sure I've got your undivided attention, here."

"You do. Ohhh. Keep doing that..."

"Not gonna stop until you..."

"Ah."

"Nnnn...a little bit...can you tilt up just a...yeah. Yes!"

"Oh my god..."

"AAAGH GOD DAMN IT! FUCK! SONUVABITCH!"

"What the – that shitty driver, is he trying to kill us? Did you hurt your head?"

"My arm..."

"You could have just fallen on _me_ , you know."

"Not if I might hurt you. God, think of the headlines. Singer of Tokio Hotel crushed under his naked twin while traveling between venues..."

"Let me see it...oooh, you're still..."

"Of course I am, we were in the middle...ohh that's nice."

"Make you forget about your arm?"

"Completely."

"Move over...no, onto your back. Yeah, mmm. If you're good to finish, so am I. So long as I'm on top."

"Fuck, Bill; you're always 'on top' even when I'm _in..._ ah!"

"Thought that might get your attention."

"Shut up and keep going."

"What about your arm?"

"Who cares about my arm when you're doing that? Ahh..."

* * *

Tom winces as he curls his hand around a duffel to cart it off the bus when they've arrived the next morning. "Fuck," he says, knowing that the warning twinge means he needs to see a medic, soon. He sets the bag down and looks over at Bill, numb to the implications.

"Oh my god," Bill says, noticing the discomfort crossing Tom's face. "Tomi? What can I do?"

"Carry this," Tom says, in a tone that's only slightly this side of piteous. "And have one of the PAs send the medic over?"

"Of course," Bill replies, phone already in his hand as he dials with a thumb, snatching the bag from Tom's hand so quickly that he almost pulls his arm a second time. They sit side by side on the bus couch, thighs pressing, as they wait for the medic.

Tom stretches his left arm out and hisses slightly in discomfort. He fell badly on it the night before, twisting off to the side in a panicked determination more instinct than logical telling him not to fall on Bill's bony chest, and the lurch of the bus had wrenched him off his intended course.

"You can't tell them how you hurt it," Bill frets, hovering next to him, his anxious eyes going up and down Tom's arm as Tom curls his hand into a fist and groans a bit at the twinge of pain that shoots up his arm.

"What, doing push-ups?" Tom replies, lifting his head. He's being facetious, but maybe teasing Bill. A bit.

"Yes – NO! - you can't tell them you were doing push-ups over me," Bill says, getting up and flailing halfway across the bus in a couple of strides.

"They wouldn't ask that," Tom returns, calm about it. "And I most certainly wouldn't tell them."

"Okay; okay, good." Bill folds his arms over his chest and appears to breathe at last. "Tomi, what if you're not okay? What if you can't play guitar?"

Vein-chilling terror shoots through him and Tom shakes his head. This is the worst case scenario that flashed through his head when he first tried to pick up the bag, and he's not letting himself go there.

"I can play guitar in my sleep," Tom says with a laugh. "It's the piano I'm worried about, but only because it takes more concentration."

Bill wrinkles his nose; paces back and forth across the bus again. "So...what _are_ you going to tell them, when they ask how you hurt it?" he asks, shelving the subject of whether Tom can play, Tom knows, because they _can't_ think on it. He has to play, and that's all.

"I'd rather they thought I injured it while pulling out all the stops in my wicked guitar solo," Tom says thoughtfully.

Bill gave him a scathing look. "Then people would think you're an incompetent guitarist."

"Oh," Tom said, crestfallen. "Didn't think of that."

"This is why I do all the thinking for us," Bill proclaimed.

"Then...walking the dogs?" Tom makes a face. He hates to blame their beloved dog-boys.

"Anything but the truth."

It's a mild sprain, which makes Bill begin to hyperventilate in the opening stages of hysteria until the medic splints Tom's arm with a blue support bandage that he calls an Elbow Spider, reassuring Bill that it's something made of "thera-tape" and has nothing to do with spiders at all when Bill makes faces and little grossed-out noises. The medic tells him that he'll be able to play.

"Take ibuprofen," the medic advises. "Up to four, with food or milk. And make sure you don't use that arm for anything when you're not playing, if you want to keep touring."

"What, not even..." Tom says, making a lewd gesture that can't be misinterpreted.

The medic doesn't even crack a smile. "Especially not that."

Tom shrugs.

"I did say no groupies on the bus, so I guess you're out of luck; poor Tom," Bill says with a great deal of mock sympathy. "First no groupies, now no jerking off. Monk Tom."

Tom narrows his eyes at him. Before he can get up from the couch, Nova is nudging at his knee, looking up with the hugest, most hopeful doggie eyes in the whole world. Tom grins over at his brother. "Biiiiiill..."

"Oh, no," Bill tells him, looking from Tom to Nova with a 'yuck' face. "No way, he's due for a big one."

Tom raises his brows. "Do you want me to keep touring, or not?"

Bill sighs and goes to hunt up the dogs' leashes.

"Okay," he says over his shoulder, "but _you_ get to come with me and pick it up."

* * *

"My arm will heal better," Tom says with shining eyes, "if you carry these bags for me."

Bill rolls his eyes, but he picks up his brother's duffel and laptop case. "I'm pretty sure we have roadies and PAs for this," he tries to point out, but Tom's already off the bus and lighting up a cigarette, leaving Bill behind him, open-mouthed and indignant.

As they set up temporary shop in yet another venue, Bill considers hunting down a member of management to fire that shitty bus driver. It had been his swerve, Bill was convinced, that had caused Tom to topple and hurt his arm to begin with. He'd cracked his head a good one, too, but Tom was so thick-headed he'd shrugged that off with no side-effects. Other than the symptoms of his usual idiocy.

"My god," Georg says, stumbling past him clutching at his stomach. "I think that man was trying to make us seasick. Our bus driver was a maniac, weaving all over the road. I think I'm going to vomit."

Bill dismisses the half-formed plan of switching bus drivers. He turns around to check on Tom's position and very nearly comes nose to nose with him, as Tom's right on his heels. "Were you...holding onto my shirt?"

"So what if I was?" Tom says, scuffling back a step, eyes sliding away from Bill.

Bill shakes his head, his mouth unable to settle on a frown or a smile. If Tom is clingy, then he truly isn't feeling well. Bill can't help but feel guilty over his share of responsibility for the accident. He'd lured Tom in with his wiles and plied him with alcohol, after all.

Later on in the green room, Tom is keeping his left hand motionless on his knee, when typically he'd be jittering all over the place by now.

"Bill, get me a drink?" Tom asks, and makes the puppy eyes. The ones he knows Bill can't resist.

"Am I your slave, now?" Bill huffs, but he's already off and searching for an energy drink.

"My arm..." Tom begins.

"Yah, yah," Bill cuts him off, waving a hand. He pops the tab for Tom, too, because he's considerate like that, even unto the point of risking a broken nail right before a show.

Right before they go on-stage, it's "Bill, can you help me settle my guitar strap over my shoulder?"

Bill turns with pursed lips, about to tell him he ought to have Georg do it, because Georg is a guitar player, too, and he'd certainly know how to do it better than Bill would. That or a tech. He catches the faint smirk on Tom's face as though Tom is anticipating this answer. Despite the fact that he's got to hurry up and take his place so that the show can start, he lifts Tom's guitar up and drapes it over Tom's shoulder just so, as he's seen his twin do thousands of times.

"You going to be okay?" Bill asks, bending his head so that the question is kept between the two of them.

Tom grunts. "Gonna have to be," he replies.

"Take your ibuprofen?"

"Did, with the drink you got me."

Bill snatches an instant longer from the building crescendo of screaming expectation that is the massed crowd beyond the stage as the fingers of Tom's left hand, his injured arm, pluck at the hip of Bill's costume. "We're okay," he tells Tom.

"Yeah," Tom says, ducking his head, shuffling away as though embarrassed to need that much.

Bill gets it. It couldn't be a PA or a tech or even Georg.

Tom plays Zoom note-perfect that night, as he's done every night so far, raising his fist in triumph as Bill spins, biting his lip as he looks over at Tom with his eyes alight. There are some moments he simply can't care whether the camera catches or not.

After the show, it's back to the bus and they're not five miles down the road before Tom is sprawled out on the couch making demands.

"Can you fetch me a pillow?"

Bill does, although he's tempted for a moment to jam it into his brother's ass instead of tucking it near his back so that he can recline and drape his strained arm over the back of the couch.

"Bill? Get me a drink?"

Bill does, and opens the twist top himself before Tom can prompt him, scared that Tom will hurt his arm further somehow even if he's merely holding the bottle in his left hand while he opens with his right.

"My arm will heal faster," Tom declares, "if you help me out with _this_."

Bill settles on the couch beside him and his eyes flick down and around. "Hmm," he says, his credulity stretched to the breaking point.

Tom glances up and down the bus. The puppies are boarded up in the media room with bowls of dog chow and the bus curtains are drawn shut to black out any passing light, so that they can sleep. "Yeah, I'm not supposed to be straining my arm, so..."

Bill can't help the exasperated noise that escapes him now. "It was your _left_ arm that got hurt, Tom, and we're right-handed..."

Tom blinks up at him, somehow managing to be woebegone and alluring all at once. "But, you make everything better."

"Even this," Bill says, tipping himself onto the couch over Tom's thighs, careful not to jar the arm that's settled over the couch.

"Especially this," Tom assures him, and tugs a lock of Bill's hair free from its gelled coif. He uses it to draw Bill's face closer.

Bill finds he can't argue with Tom on that score. He spreads little kisses over Tom's face, moves down to his throat, and nestles his head against Tom's shoulder. Tom secures an arm around him and they remain like that for a long while, trading soft lazy kisses.

At length, Bill ventures, "Bed?"

"Sure," Tom says, "as long as you give me a helping hand."

"As many as you like," Bill promises impulsively, turning and pressing a kiss to Tom's forearm where it rests across the couch back. Maybe his mouth will be helpful, too, if Tom plays his cards right.

"Bill?"

Halfway to the bunks area, Bill makes an inquisitive noise.

"Can you turn the bed down for me?"

Bill rolls his eyes, but complies. This is going to be a long recuperative period, he can tell. Especially if he's the only one who can fulfill all of Tom's little whims. Still, it's Tom, and none of his requests are truly onerous.

And Bill does like making _everything_ better, he does.

"Bill? Can you get my toothbrush? And a cup of water?"

For Tom, Bill reminds himself. "I'd better get cuddles out of this," he threatens.

" _After,_ right?" At Bill's wordless growl, Tom breaks into a grin. "Yeah, I've got a big supply. One-armed, though."

"One-armed Tomi hugs are better than anyone else's," Bill vows, and it's only the truth.

He grabs Tom's toothbrush, squeezing out a dab of paste onto the bristles, and grabs a cup so that Tom can rinse and spit, knowing all the while he'll probably end up carrying all of it back to the bathroom at some point so Tom won't be haunted by thoughts of dirty toothpaste water spilling on his bed or the brush clattering to the floor.

When Bill returns, Tom has a corner of the covers turned up for him and he's wearing a hopeful little smile, as though Bill's going to turn him down for cuddling (and almost certainly more) and has to be coaxed. Bill settles himself in bed beside him, the narrow bunk lining them up hip to hip and chest to chest, and curls against him. Tom's arm encloses him, the covers come up to their necks with a single tug, and they're barricaded in together. They breathe in stillness, and Tom is unwinding against Bill at last, muscles releasing tension as he relaxes.

"You still want to..." Bill begins.

"Later," Tom replies, and his soft exhalations stir against Bill's collarbone.

Bill nods, hearing the rest unsaid. _This is enough for now._ They're always moving, always on the go, always coping from one crisis to the next, being shuttled from one place to another. These stolen moments of stillness are the glue that holds them together, when the world won't stop for them. 

Tonight the motions of the bus are gentle as a boat rocked on calm waters, and Bill holds Tom in place as the road unfurls beneath them. Always in transit, they're always at home right where they are with the one they need right beside them.


End file.
